The Franklin, now 

The Franklin River campaign reigns supreme as both a catalyst for the formation of the Wilderness Society and an emblem of what people power can achieve. To celebrate 50 years of the movement that delivered this totemic victory, the Tasmanian Wilderness Society team rafted the river, rejoicing in its magic, honouring heroism past and renewing hope for the future. 

Alice Hardinge, Tasmanian Campaigns Manager, shares her diary from the recent journey. 

Words by Alice Hardinge, photographs by Anna Brozek.

Day 1, October 2025 - Collingwood river to Angel Rain: Already the beauty of this place is astounding. With much glee we have arrived at our first camp amongst ancient rock overhangs. With water levels of 1.4m at the Collingwood Bridge we were off to a smooth start, some excitement too after our first rapid rush over Boulder Brace. A thousand shades of green contrast, lime laurel and deep myrtle magic. Vibes are high and I am reminded how happy I am to have this role, to advocate for wilderness with co-workers I consider close friends.  

I am so cognizant that we all stand on the shoulders of giants, this place would have been flooded if it weren't for the courageous people who stood up for nature. All cosied up at camp in the caves, with jagged rock and dramatic gorges. I think of the pink robin that flitted by just as we jumped on the river and feel so excited about the adventure that awaits.

Day 2 - Angel Rain to Coruscades: We are so lucky to exist here on this wonderful planet. Although the climate and biodiversity collapse is hurtling forward - the Franklin is flowing before my eyes, free to the ocean. Proof that winning is possible and it is never too late.

Day 3 - Great Ravine: The rafts flipped again and again, dancing in the frothing broil of the ‘churn’ rapid. A huge hole sucks at the stacked rafts as Benny pulls hard against the rope trying to manoeuvre them free into the current. The sheer power of the river is exhilarating yet terrifying, as the rafts continue to spin in the gushing water, the Franklin at force.

The sun is glistening atop distant mountain peaks and then showers blow over in the typical everchanging south west spring weather. As I gaze back at the river, two barrels and the kitchen bag break loose from the rafts as the frenzied rolls continue. We watch as they bob into the foamy white froth and circle in eddies, hoping desperately that we will be able to retrieve them so as not to go hungry.  

The evening brings relaxation and reflection as Hughie and I sit in our bivvies a mere 3 metres from the mighty Franklin’s banks. A platypus welcomes us to camp. 

Day 4 - Rafters Basin: Through the great ravine we portaged our bags, barrels, eskys and paddles over slippery rocks and through stunning rainforest.  

Spirits are high, despite temporarily losing our guide Ben in the Coruscade rapids. We sit under our tarp after as light rain splatters, river foam floats idly by. The calls of birds guide us along the water and we even got a brief glimpse of a reclusive rakali. We’ve seen a pink robin everyday of this trip so far—their vibrant chests reflecting off the everchanging river. 

Day 5 - Newlands Coruscades: The satellite phone started ringing and mine and Kate's anticipation was peaking. Then Nat picks up, “Alice? Yes we filed!” What a surreal moment—on the banks of the Franklin learning about how we managed to just get all the legal documents together in time to sue Forestry to protect critical swift parrot habitat. Past battles won blending into the present - the ongoing urgency and the courage to challenge the mindless commitment to endless extractivism.

Day 6 - A slow morning as the river serenades us into another day in paradise.

Yesterday we passed Rock Island Bend, a place so mythologised. It was so special to see her in real life, after staring at Dombrovskis's photo so many times over the years. It truly was an image that galvanised a nation, and in person it is even more beautiful. 

Half awake Hughie
Gazes out at the Franklin
The river serenades

Dotted along the rocks, Danny, Luke and I write and reflect. The majesty of this trip is almost unfathomable. How to capture a beauty, this feeling of total awe, in something as definitive as words? 

Seared into my mind is the image of Benny’s bobbing head amongst the massive rapids, bouncing along and getting lost in the froth. He swims furiously towards our raft as we run the rapid without a guide, fear stricken faces holding on tight and low, hoping madly for the best. 

Day 7 - We’ve slowed pace alongside the river as it continues to drop and the sun shines through strong. 

Tannin waters lap
At the sandy people beach
As sun peaks though clouds

Day 8 - The 5am start was completely worth it as the morning light kisses the mountain peaks and we glide over still water. Reflections are like glass on the Gordon—I really wish we had another week out here. We flick through old campaign books at Sir John's Hut laughing at how similar some of the faces look to our current activist mates. 

This was a trip of a lifetime, something I will never forget. Hope has bloomed within me over the past week in the wild. We can’t give up—optimism is one of our greatest strengths. I look around at the smiling faces of my comrades, knowing we’ve come through this adventure together and feel both the weight and power of the legacy of the Wilderness Society—and the importance of our work for future generations. The beauty of this trip will keep us inspired for months and months to come. Wild then, wild now, wild forever. —Alice Hardinge.

Thanks to the Franklin crew for sharing this adventure with Wilderness Journal. 
The crew were: Jimmy Cordwell - Wilderness Campaigner; Alice Hardinge - Tasmanian Campaigns Manager; Kate Johnston - TWS Tas Convenor; Hughie Nicklason - Forest Campaigner; Luke Smith - Citizen Science Coordinator; Danny Carney - TWS Tas Committee member; Helena Griffith - Office and Outreach Coordinator; Anna Brozek - Photographer / Film Maker; and thanks to Franklin River Rafting.  

In appreciation to all those who saved the river. 

Film of the expedition down the Franklin by Anna Brozek. 

Blockade, 1983

Words and photography by Ian Wright

 Ian Wright tells us a personal story of the life that led to him to covering the most influential environmental campaign in Australian history and his move from behind the lens to active protester. As Bob Brown says: "Ian came to join this gathering of Australians for love of country, but he also came as a chronicler." 

The following are previously unseen photographs from one of the unsung. 

It is a very hot day several decades ago and a small boy is playing on the bank of the Murray River in far north western Victoria. It hasn't rained for weeks, possibly months, and the landscape is parched. Apart from family members engaged in their own pursuits; fishing, reading, exploring, there are no other people within sight or sound.

The boy is engrossed in collecting twigs and sticks and making houses out of them to accommodate the tiny people he sees so clearly in his imagination. His sensory canvas includes the smell of dry eucalyptus leaves along with the mournful calls of crows, apparently also feeling the heat. He is partly shaded by towering river redgums as the magnificent Murray flows languidly past, almost noiseless as it slides by.

The boy has a deep respect for the river, instilled almost since birth. This beautiful, lazy entity has many hidden perils that can snatch life in a moment: sandbars with hidden holes, snags, strong currents. It is also the lifeblood that nurtures the countryside, filling billabongs and wetlands, giving life to redgum forests, supporting birds and fish. This is his first awareness of the yin and yang of Mother Earth—it can deeply nourish the psyche or strike harshly and unsentimentally without warning.

From this experience and others like it, he develops a profound appreciation of the spiritual rejuvenation that can come from being with, and in, nature.

That boy, is of course, me.

When I was fourteen my family moved to Melbourne. The culture shock was huge. From being a member of a well known family in a small town I became just another anonymous person among thousands in the big city; not least at school where the boy from a school of three hundred students became just the latest new arrival in a rough school of around a thousand kids, standing out in his odd school uniform. 

Fortunately, after another school move I met some like-minded friends, including a few who were keen on bushwalking. Mostly we walked at Wilsons Promontory and in the Victorian High Country. A particular favourite of mine was the Howqua Track when it was foot traffic only.

In my late teens I started to take a keen interest in socio-political issues that led to me participating as a senior secondary student in anti-Vietnam War Moratorium marches in Melbourne. From those experiences I developed a healthy scepticism toward government decision-making. One other formative observation was the way the 'powers that be' sought to discredit and marginalise those who opposed their actions. 

Jump forward a dozen or so years. I have a regular job, I still get away to the bush regularly and have embraced photography as my creative direction. Like many of my generation, I had been horrified by the desecration of Lake Pedder that many of us on the mainland only really learned about after the event. From that point I vowed that if something like that was to be proposed again I'd not stand by passively. 

And along came the Franklin Dam proposal. As various individuals and groups in Tasmania coalesced into a coordinated movement against the dam, their sustained and indefatigable work over several years was bearing fruit. Awareness of what was at stake if the dam went ahead steadily grew, nationally and internationally.

And the age old tactic of demonising those opposed to the building of the dam gathered steam. Terms such as 'dirty hippies' and 'dole bludgers' were trotted out along with much more colourful descriptors. I knew, from the people around me, that those opposed to the dam came from across society generally. Good people, deeply concerned about a looming environmental and cultural disaster.

As the Federal Election approached in March 1983, with Federal Labor committed to preventing the dam and the Federal Coalition not staunch in opposition, the campaign against the dam stepped up. Increasing numbers of protesters visited Strahan to take part in direct action—with many prepared to be arrested. The plan was to generate maximum media interest, with it culminating in G Day, a day of action just before the election.

Which brings me back to my family connections. Early in 1983 my youngest sister, Felicity (Flick), at age 18, headed down to Strahan where she was soon arrested at Warner's Landing for trespass. Carrying balloons, she was a clear threat to public order and, after refusing bail, spent two weeks in Risdon Prison.

Shortly afterward my second youngest sister, Penny, aged 22, went to Strahan where she was also duly arrested and bailed. This was impressive, as she was unclear of the potential impact an arrest for trespass would have on her future law career.

Sharing the values instilled by our wonderful father, who always stressed the importance of acting rather than simply talking, I trod the path of my little sisters and travelled down to the blockade in late February.

(As an aside, our conservative father was horrified and angry that any of us would wilfully break the law—despite him fostering our capacity to act on our convictions. Years later I believe that he came around to being quite proud of his kids.)

In addition to wanting to add my physical presence to the protest at Strahan, my other main agenda was to counter the negative profiling of anti-dam protesters by photographing and interviewing protesters and documenting life at the blockade. At this time I was quite clear that I did not want to be arrested.

So, in late February 1983, I find myself in the overwhelmingly beautiful rainforest of South West Tasmania. It took about ten minutes for me to decide to fully participate in the protest even if that meant being arrested.

I then embarked on the two week experience of a lifetime. The images here provide glimpses into what that two weeks entailed. Including, but not limited, to arriving at Strahan, non-violent-action training, life at Greenie Acres, a quick action to re-occupy Warner's Landing, a longer action to blockade the works compound near Mt McCutcheon, arrest, a pleasant afternoon in the police compound at Queenstown, wrapping up.

As someone has no doubt said, 'let the pictures do the talking' so walk on!

In reflecting on my experience on the Franklin Blockade forty years hence, I'm left with some clear impressions. The overwhelming one is how sophisticated and superbly organised the protest was. Whether it was the amazing kitchen at Greenie Acres; recording the names of every person boarding the J.Lee.M for an upriver action; the rigorous requirement for all active protesters to undertake three days of Non-Violent Action training; the widely accepted practice of consensus decision-making; the behind the scenes TWS campaigns being driven from Hobart and other state offices; or any number of other subtle activities. A great amount of thought, planning and ongoing maintenance lay just under the surface of what for most of us would have been a smooth-running, positive and affirming experience.

Another strong impression is how good-natured and positive the interactions between protesters and the police were (in my experience). 

The importance of being assigned to an affinity group on arrival can't be overestimated. Being able to relate to a bunch of new potential friends within a day or so of arrival meant we felt acknowledged, valued and accepted into 'the tribe'.

The overwhelming impression I'm left with however, is the power of people - when motivated by a cause that goes beyond self interest, that understands some things should never be sold or destroyed and that mass non-violent protest can be blocked, resisted and attacked, but ultimately never be finally defeated. 

And as for those dirty, smelly, trouble-making protesters? I didn't meet any. But I did meet a wonderful bunch of decent people who cared deeply about the world that would be left to future generations. People who were prepared to take direct non-violent action to ensure the Gordon and Franklin wild rivers would continue to flow free.

I acknowledge Palawa/Tasmanian Aboriginal people as the original owners of Lutruwita / Tasmania, Aboriginal land, Palawa country. The Franklin River protest began at Timkarik / country north of Macquarie Harbour including Strahan, and crossed Paralungatik / Macquarie Harbour.

Ian Wright has just released Blockade, a photographic diary documenting his two weeks on the Blockade. In addition to his photographs, it includes seventeen short interviews with protesters. Blockade (distributed by Books At Manic on the mainland and in Tasmania by FortySouth) is now available. 

“Ian Wright’s photographic memoir of the Franklin River blockade is a magnificent addition to the record of Australia’s greatest wilderness-saving protest. Ian came to join this gathering of Australians for love of country, but he also came as a chronicler. More than four decades on, his chronicle surfaces as a vital record of the life of the river-savers and the community of people from all over the nation who came to remote nature’s aid in such lethal (for the river) circumstances. I predict it will be slipped into many a future rafter’s waterproof bag: and read in forest campsites by the river which was saved from utter destruction by the people his splendid book brings back into focus.”—Foreword to Blockade by Bob Brown

We thank Ian for sharing his story and these never-before-seen images.

Bob Graham on saving the Douglas-Apsley

Continuing our 50th Anniversary stories, we celebrate the enduring work of Bob Graham, from saving the Douglas-Apsley to restoring the Wilderness Society's headquarters. 

Words by Bob Graham, as told to Meg Bauer with photographs by Anna Brozek.

My personal campaign through the 80s was to save the Douglas-Apsley—an area of diverse forest, tranquil waterholes and deep river gorges near Bicheno, on the East Coast of Tasmania. 

I had spent the 70s doing conventional activist roles: press releases, meeting politicians, raising money, all those things. And I didn't like it, you know. I was then living out of Hobart deliberately and liked living and working in the bush. And once I found out about the Douglas-Apsley, I thought, well, nobody knows what's here? Or its values, or where it is. I have to popularise it. 

It wasn’t my first wish to popularise it, but I knew I had to get this place known in order to save it. And that’s why I put a 30-kilometre walking track through this area of State Forest and published route guides, and had functions, and took people for walks, and popularised it.

I used that Lake Pedder experience. We got lots of people to Pedder. They flew in, they walked in from various ways, and got to love it.

It all started in 1976, or thereabouts, when two friends of mine—Jamie Kirkpatrick (who died last year) and Chris Harwood—came back from a botanising trip in the Eastern Tiers. And they said: there's a new logging road. They told me the whole Eastern Tiers is roaded, the coupes are all marked out—the whole area is delineated for clearfelling for the woodchip industry. 

At that point, I was spending all my available time trying to save South West Tasmania. I didn't need another issue, but I got as far as getting some maps out, and looking at where the roads were, and where the logging coupes were. And I delineated the last large, unroaded, unlogged area was centred around Mount Puzzler, which includes the Douglas and Apsley river catchments. But it wasn't until 1981 that I went up there, on the ground, and took a closer interest. 

My very good friend the late Jeff Weston had been in there, to the waterfall and a few other places. And so he took me, and I became aware of the area, and started to do a few trips to work out the main scenic features. I think it was about 1983 that I decided to put the walking track through and link it up.

I was into Landcare, and all about catchment management, and the Douglas River catchment was, as then, almost untouched. The Western Apsley was already logged since 1976, when I first took an interest in all this—a lot of the area was clearfelled. I thought it's unlikely we'll save the Apsley, but we're in with a chance of getting the Douglas.

I decided to cut a track and popularise its features: the Falls, which became known as Heritage Falls; the peak, which is called Lookout Hill; the rainforest ledge—which is a particularly interesting feature because it's a cloud forest. So there's rainforest tree species, myrtle and sassafras mostly, high up overlooking the sea, where the sea mist collects. Those things I wanted to link up with the track. 

I went bush and worked out how to do this, and I went to a landowner who had access to parts of it. He was very mildly sympathetic, but he didn't want the track anywhere near his place.

So I put in a circuit track—which is, from memory, about a seven or eight hour circuit, starting at Thompsons Marshes and going around those features and back again. It took all my spare time over, I think, 1983. 

And then I thought: well, I'm not going to leave the Apsley undefended. And the next year, I started putting the track right through to the Apsley waterhole. 

I estimate I did about three days of reconnaissance for every day's track work. I wanted to get it in the right place, and I had a scrub hook—which is an axe handle with a heavy hook on the end of it, used for cutting scrub—and yeah, just cut. 

It took a total of three years. I lived near Buckland, which is a couple of hours’ drive further south. I had a farm, and in the winter there was more spare time, so I’d head up. 

I'd go up there for about three days at a time, about every three weeks—that’s why it took three years. And Jeff, bless him—he died almost 10 years ago, was 20 years older than me—he was with me all the way. 

There was very little actual track work, in terms of moving rocks or earth or drainage. Some of it was using existing tracks, which Shell had created when it explored the whole area for coal in the 1970s. There were some bits of its tracks left, and I used them where I could.

And then it was marking the path. I chose aluminium venetian blinds, cut them up into two-inch squares, and carried them in a little nail bag with a hammer, and nailed them on the trees, in both directions. Lots of them, as signage.

I also produced the route guide, and helped organise a lot of functions where we informed people. Simultaneously, I was a Councillor with the Tasmanian Conservation Trust, and we got academic studies going. Scientists would go up there and find things, areas of endemism—not just rare plants, but groups of rare plants—and that was one of the things that helped us save some of the coupes in the Apsley. 

Year by year, there'd be another coupe planned to be logged, and so we'd work on stopping that—buying time. We found landslip potential. So we stopped the coupe in Possum Creek, which was a tributary of the Douglas. Yeah, it was just stalling them and making it difficult for them, and they'd go somewhere else. 

In the area, there was a little farm called Rosedale, a couple hundred acres, and it was owned by Arthur Jones, who was the first member of the Wilderness Society from the East Coast of Tasmania. He’d come to meetings and was supportive, and he’d lend us his property—which was open paddocks and lots of space, right beside the Apsley River—we had one of our Forest Festivals there. 

Then he died, and his sisters and brother came down from Queensland to administer his estate.

So I ingratiated myself with them, and put in a lot of time—took them for bushwalks and stayed at the house and had meals with them, and explained what I was doing and why. And as a result, they gave me a block of land, which is still in The Wilderness Society's name. It's five acres and it's very strategic, because it links the then-public road with what was the State Forest—public land. 
 

Whereas the next farm, Glen Alban—which is probably thousands of acres—was bought by a new owner who was actively buying up or acquiring reserve roads, closing them off, locking them up and prohibiting access. And if he had bought Rosedale, which was a possibility, then he would have had this five-acre block as well, and there'd be no access to the Apsley River and we wouldn't have had the popularity—and maybe wouldn't have got the National Park. 

But because we earned that five-acre block—and it's got conservation values, oyster bay pine and interesting vegetation on it—we had access to what was State Forest public land. And so we had continuity for the walking track, right through from the north. I’ve still got the title at home in my file. 

We got the national park in 1989, and that was a result of the Green Independents getting the balance of power in the Tasmanian Parliament. Because we had a proposal, we had a document—the proposed Douglas-Apsley National Park—and we had the science. That was one of a handful of things that was a condition of government, and so it just happened. Just like that. 

I negotiated a couple of long-term leases with the Parks services. I made sure I was a bit hard to deal with, and I got some things, like: there has to be an interpretative display board, it has to acknowledge that this is the Wilderness Society's land and our efforts to get this park. It's all still there. 

I still own a block of land in the north of the park—because Forestry were trying to stop me cutting tracks in the State Forest, but it wasn't illegal. I had land in the north and south, and I had legal access, and I was just linking them up with the tracks!

I’ve still got land up there, and still visit it, but once we got the national park, I went on with a lot of other things—family and farm and business and other campaigns and adventure and the things you do in life. And yeah, I let it go. The track gradually got overgrown.

Once Parks went through and cleared the tracks, they put some markers up. That was the last time, and it's been many years now since any serious track work was done.

Interestingly, a handful of years ago, a local group wanted to do some voluntary track work. And they went to Parks and Parks said: You've got to sign an agreement that you will not criticise national parks. No way! So they lost a handful of volunteers that would have cleared the track, because of their intransigence and self-interest.

I walked the track about 18 months ago. And yeah: there's a couple of spots, one in particular, where even though it was my design and my track, I couldn't find it for a while! Of course, I found it in the end. But it’s not critical to me whether it's clear or not.

The track has done its job, and we've got the national park. 

The story of the horse—when Bob Brown asked Bob Graham to deliver a message to the Commonwealth:  

“We had the Helsham Inquiry. They were doing an inquiry into Tasmanian forestry issues and they were using the Commonwealth law courts in Davey Street for their offices. 

Bob Brown was visiting my farm—we were having a picnic up in the bush. And he said: I want you to ride to the Commonwealth law court and present a letter to the Inquiry. And I said, oh look, I can't do that. My horse has never seen a motorcar, let alone traffic. Bob said: I'll find the horses.

So he got these two riding-school horses that were used to traffic and people. They were bomb-proof, fantastic horses—and they were delivered to the far end of Salamanca place. And yeah, I just turned up with my stock saddle and hat and hopped on, with this letter in the saddlebag. 

So we just ambled up, my late wife Helen and I, each on our horses. And we get to Davey Street, and there’s a policeman standing on the side of the road, and as soon as sees us he walks out into the traffic and stops the whole four lanes of traffic for us. And I was in no hurry, I would have waited, but you’d never get a break. Anyway I rode across, and I rode up the steps of the law court, and the media were there, and I had the photo taken—which might have ended up on the front page of the Mercury. 

Bob said he chose me to do this because I'm the only person he'd ever seen go over the ears of a horse and land on my feet.

Now I can't remember the incident—I've gone over the ears of horses many times—but I think it was probably in the middle-70s, up in Lachlan, south of New Norfolk, at a get-together on Di Downs’ farm. She had this horse, and she said: men can't ride it. Only women can ride this horse. Okay? You want me to try it? You can try it. So, I hopped on: I went over its ears. 

Anyway Bob happened to be there, and he happened to remember, and then a few years or a decade later, he needed somebody who could ride. So I was it.”

Bob Graham was the ‘committee’ overseeing the renovation of 130 Davey Street—after successfully petitioning the board to greenlight the project—finding a highly ethical builder, Forrest Whitten, a former Tarkine Tiger, to complete the work.

And when Forrest came to Bob and said: I need hardwood and I want these dimensions and I can't find them, Bob said: well, I'll have a look in my collection. Now, a door in the middle of the building features a piece of wood that had been racked and drying in Bob’s shed for the past 20 years. 

When asked about his personal legacy, Bob chuckles. “I don't care! When I'm dead and gone, I'm dead and gone! But it is a good feeling to know that we've got the World Heritage Area. We've got the enlarged Southwest National Park. I've got the Douglas Apsley. I've got a restored building next door. I mean, there's lots of little things—but it's good to have played a role in these things happening. And we've got the Wilderness Society!”

We thank Bob Graham for telling his story, for his continuing work and everything he's saved. 

Tasmania headquarters, restored

Headquarters to the Wilderness Society since 1982, 130 Davey St, Nipaluna /Hobart , 
Lutruwita / Tasmania, has been renovated and renewed, ready for future generations of 
nature defenders.
"It's just so lovely being back here."

Excerpts from speeches at the reopening celebrations, November 2025. 
Photographs by Anna Brozek

The Wilderness Society community gathered to celebrate. The team were fresh from their journey on the Franklin. Just as the Franklin played host to a new generation of explorers and nature activists, so too is the Wilderness Society's headquarters ready for another 50 years of nature protection. 

"I'm so happy we have a refurbished building ready to get absolutely into the campaigns and see some big wins. So thank you very much. Every skill is useful, every single person is absolutely essential in order to win these campaigns and to protect these beautiful places. We're getting really close, and we're really up for a big year."—Alice Hardinge, Tasmania Campaign Manager

"This building was our home. It was a bit like an ants nest. We were coming and going, but when we were in there, we were safe. It's great to be in such good company again. It's great to be here—it's lovely to see so many old friends, so many new faces as well. It's just so lovely being back here at the TWS building in Davey Street in Hobart."—Bob Brown.

"The bones of the building are the same, but the restoration has been done with such care, skill and with such a watchful and generous eye, it's a renewal that holds the past while making space for the future. To see so many people, so many visionaries who are here today, to see the new team, the young inheritors of this extraordinary mission, it really fills me with hope. My deepest wish is that this building, which has been so beautifully restored, continues to be a place of gathering and purpose, a base for courage and a base for coming together, and a reminder that from that shared struggle something enduring and beautiful can emerge."—Matt Brennan, CEO of the Wilderness Society. 

"We're more coordinated than we have been in a long time. We're out in the forest more than we have been in a long time, and we're working with local communities more than we have been in a very long time, and we're feeling in our hearts, in our souls, in our minds, that this is the moment to end native forest logging once and for all. This is the time that we can finally get this one across the line. And wouldn't it be poetry on TWS's 50th birthday to get that done? The building feels so alive. It feels like being home."—Hughie Nicklason, Forest Campaigner.

"I think it's important to remember some of those unsung champions of wilderness who made these things happen. And you know, the stories you could tell about 130 Davey Street. I mean, I had my first meeting in 130 Davey Street. 

"When we came to 130 Davey Street it was a cavernous, dank shell. It had this astronomical price tag, something like $100,000. These were the days when you could get a room in a share house for 15 bucks a week. So it was a lot of money. At first, when we came and had a look at it, we just thought, 'We can't do this. We can't afford to buy this building at a time when we're spending money on a blockade and rallies on the mainland and posters and rubber duckies and cooking equipment and boats and all of the accoutrement necessary for a huge action.' So to me, it seemed like the idea should be put on ice. 

"That was until Judy one night said, 'Have a read of this and see what you think.' It was a document titled 'Prospectus'. I didn't even know what a prospectus was, but I read it and it was about buying a building. I said to Judy, 'I thought we couldn't afford it.' And that's when she said, 'No, The Wilderness Society is not buying the building. We're setting up a company, and Wilderness Society supporters will buy shares in the company, and then the Wilderness Society will pay rent to the company, which will return a dividend to the shareholders.' And to me, it was as if someone had just tried to explain Einstein's Theory of Relativity. It was just such a revelation and a testimony to the intelligence and innovation of that woman, Judy Richter. [See below for more on Judy.]

Thanks to everyone for giving this building, this iconic place, a new lease of life."—Geoff Law, long-time Wilderness Society campaigner. 

Archival material from around the time of the building's original opening in 1982: